But, for I should live a life
not of my own
but, of the love for which
wafts the wings of my soul;
trumping all and dies.
before me like a cascading wake
on a beach of stone.

Love is her tenderness
glance and touch.
for to die with but a
grasp, or to live with only
the beauty in the minds eye
would be torture.

in such esteem shall feel
as I've felt

Shall love the one who forever
whits my quill.

blessed is your way and betrothed,
my wish.
Please, my dear, don't fold away.

The Bad Nights

the bad nights are empty, not even half full. Toilet sitting, eight straight fingers pressed hard, with a screach inside, to forehead wishing it'd open for an instant to fold out and down; spill to the floor then mop up. I know they're asleep and so are you. Calls. Calls. Calls. Calls. Empty trash cans, no rubber floor mats and snow covered door handles are more lonely than I, but I'm something else. Push down to the floor and open your heart. There is no love in loathing, only passion and justice prevails while vice lingers; waits, deciding what's next. The smell of fish awakes us to nothing. And not you. you're gone and yet youve never been here. I've created something I can't retrace now and youre still not here. youre not coming home to somewhere youve never been. and never will be.

a flash of light and wishing I was anywhere and there

I remember that night. And I don't remember anything, well.

I drove slow past the spot, turned left and went around the block; found a parking spot parallel. I fiddled with my shirt. tucked in or out? who cares? I did and I didn't know why.

My friend and (pause) you. Were there, on the street smoking.

"This is ....," he said.

I couldn't believe him. Who was she? I felt I'd known her for ever and we'd only met (pause) now.

He left. You stayed. I stayed.

We smoked, you talked. I wondered.

I was wearing an act. You; a black dress. I'd never known anyone, like you. And me, standing shirt sleeves and a button-down conscience.

We went inside and got a drink. You stood by. People squeezed through, I leaned toward you to let them pass. You smelled nice, and my hair was messy. They finally passed and Moved back to me. I'd never left and I've yet to. But in that moment I wish I had, then.

We talked some more. It was loud so we went outside. You lead and I followed. I knew you not but yet I did.

"I feel I could have talked to you forever," you'd say later. I did.

Talk to you forever.

We left that night. You with me; him ahead. And in a squeaking instant, bright lights, smog, medians and semi-trucks; we cheated. And there you were.

Where'd I gone? You were there and I never left.

You were gone after that but I remained. And here I sit (pause) and yet, remain in that moment.

And I don't remember anything, well. But I remember



A true tragedy.
A wistful glance and tugging heart and then,
For a poets dream and lovers walk still, hand-in-hand
Life’s greatest mystery and greatest gift
A dying, weeping way is soothing to few
Gentle dawn and wind-swept hair.
A life forever is abruptly short
Time away is true for It.
And time with,
is time too fast


Where'd the day Go

The car seat is only cold against the thin piece of back exposed due to a short coat and sagging jeans. I should eat more, I've told them. But I've yet to follow through.

I'm a bit put off by how watered-down the Chianti has tasted lately. Most of life is that way.

I do a U-turn, flip off the radio and head for the exit of a subdivision, becoming an empty seat.

"See you tomorrow," he said.

Nodding I made my way down the steps, patted his son on the head and moved for the door swiftly with a smile fading fast, losing children by the instant.

The streets are cold and so is my glance. I move swiftly like a ghost to Smith and his ways. We've become one voice; him and I. I would worry but I know it's coming too quick for my sake.

I'll worry for yours.

Spare keys and empty walls; lonely and loud neighbors.
The drive is quick...I think we're flying and is this a dream? I stomp my feet one at a time to no avail of the snow, which sticks to my pants. I don't care about wet socks and cold feet anymore.

Leftovers are the only thing I've time for. And wine.

Where's everyone when you don't need them? They don't read page to page or speak easy.

Can't you ever treat anyone nice?

"Where are you?"

"By the cabs. On Illinois."

"Oh, I see."

What a trip, he implied.

"My phone nearly died after I talked to you."

I pull past the parking on a one way, cars buzz by on icy 10 degree streets.

"Hold on I have to get stuff out of the trunk."

I stack what I can, drop receipts. Pick them up. Drop them.

I'll have to kick the door open from the inside, I say to myself. Where's the key? Under the mat, he said. You idiot.

Jumping, slipping and running; reaching under the mat and pulling the blue-tagged key. The passenger door opens quick, I hold the driver-inside door latch and push; nothing. I swing my legs under the wheel and press on the center of the inside. It sticks and then gives as a dusting of snow coats my face, pants and the driver seat.

Grab the boxes, receipts and head, I say to myself. There's no where to go but down tonight. No reason getting disgusted but with myself.

Silent pulley trumps a empty bottle

My listening breaks the silence.
Small taps and the house creaks.
The murmured-hum of a furnace.
But not mine.
my sniffle.
glass tapping, sitting
before me, a painted-black chipping table
a ball-point, broken pen
headphones snaked, leading to iPhone
Nuestra Senora De Guadalupe
mass pamphlet
empty grocery bags and an open stick of deodrant

swinging softly, blind pulley
sound of a pen tapping off-temp rhythm

we're the only Ones breaking the silence
which is pure?

"let's get the basement painted first," he'll say
the end comes quick to those expecting.
to those who don't.


Feed The Rave

He said: "feed the rave dude."

"Feed the rave?" I asked.

"Yeah, for sure."

I had arrived at noon and they were already on the beach. Some were drunk on wine coolers and Miller High Life. Others on themselves.

"Feed the Rave," he kept saying.

I'd been down there once or twice before but not with this many of them. They were junkies of a revolution of science and luck. Luck, I'd thought, didn't exist and to them it didn't either. But, that's not how everyone else saw it.

"Whoa," the guy would say, watching a friend wipe out in the surf, plunge and then stand upright with his mouth open wide and sandy-Pacific water dripping down his back.

Everyone's hair out here was bleached by the sun but mine wasn't. A poor midwestern boy in their eyes; an outsider with no idea on life.

And all the while: "feed the rave! "feed the rave!" "feed the rave!"

I'd come down from the street for a closer glimpse at them. Produced of an era of good genes and brilliance, they didn't know anything but themselves. Products of the Silicon Valley tech-explosion, they'd never struggled with anything but staying upright on a surf board.

Everyday the same; wake up at 11 a.m. and surf.

Houses up here cost about a million bucks, if you were lucky. And these guys woke up with the smell of ocean in their nose and the pinch of brilliance in having slept in them, the night before.

I was an outsider to them and I was paid no attention. And as the waves rolled them up, I'd just sit in the sand and watch, knowing.

Knowing them, not knowing me.


James' Pajamas

James’ pajamas

James looked so cute in his little pajamas. Now, I know what you’re thinking. I’m one of those sick freaks who likes little kids and all that. It’s not like that at all. People are always thinking the wrong thing when the point is that kids just look so cute in pajamas; running around. Few look as cute as James did though when he had his pajamas on.

James would look cute just being a kid but in pajamas he was at his best. Running around. And, you see that’s what people miss, is that kids – and especially James – are so darn cute. In pajamas. Kids are so cute that they’re the only ones who are happy-looking anymore. Kids have it figured out knowing what's happy in life. But, I digress.

And there was James. Waking up, wiping his eyes. Sometimes he’d cry for his mommy, with his legs tangled in the sheet. She was a good mommy. She loved James, but even she missed how cute James was in his pajamas. And, sometimes, she miss it when James was just being James; pajamas or not.

Like I said, he’d cry and she come and untangle his legs, set him upright and he’d run around. He’d do everything he could do in those pajamas. Color, lay in the snow and make snow angels, go to the store or run around.

And that’s the point James didn’t care about the pajamas. They didn't stop him from doing anything. He didn’t put pajamas on and think – like we think – that he had to stay inside and have some reading time, drink tea and go to bed.

No. James would just run around and be okay with whatever. He looked so cute and didn’t care. We always care and James wouldn’t – that’s why he was so good just running around. In pajamas.

He’d stop for an instant and look at the Christmas tree, marvel at its beauty or maybe, just notice it was in the room. And then he was off again in those pajamas. He’d run down stairs and play with those toys his mommy told him to put away. Setting forward putting all his weight, arm straight on a matchbox car, he'd go to the races. James would always win.

He had a lot of pajamas but James had his favorites. No question. The blue ones with the feet attached and the soft inside were the best. He’d wear those all month if his mommy didn’t pick him up, kiss him on the forehead and strip him out of them. No, he’d have kept those on for eternity. Run around, jump on his bed before eating cookies and a drinking milk.

And, so his mommy would take those pajamas off of him and James would be naked except for his diapee, and then she’d put him in other clothes. But they weren’t those pajamas. And if James knew anything - he knew that. They'd load into the car and go to the store or his mommy would drop him off at school. He’d play all day and run around but it never meant as much until he was home and he had those pajamas on.

Because, that was when James was at his best. Running around. In pajamas. And he knew it.


Chapter 1

Sitting alone, the man ended his night, same as the night before.

He slowly transitioned the weight from his back; slouching on the couch, to his legs. Placed his feet firmly to the floor, groaned and rolled forward; standing and then pausing upright. Glancing to the scantly decorated living room; walls covered with pictures of different times. The man holds a fish, caught in Lake Erie; a prize of an annual trip taken with a now-lost friend. An award for charity through action from the Indianapolis City Council. A framed and faded black and white picture of his frowning parents, flanking a well-dressed version of him at age 7.

He had spent the night as he had so many before; alone, in a white under-shirt and with a bottle of Argentine Malbec. Books and old magazines sat in piles adjacent but, not one was opened. Creases visible on their backs, scars of times past; when reading took up so much of his time.

Outwardly content; no vicious cycles of mental instability to suffer through as he had in his youth. Diligence in remaining alone was his constant now. Consistency was his spouse.

Moving swiftly forward - faster than would seem possible, the man headed toward the stairs, routinely and blindly reached for the light switch and climbed the 12-steps to the second floor - steps creaking - his mind raced to how many times he'd told himself he'd fix that creak - how many times he'd told her, he would fix that creak.

Moving to the bedroom, the man paused once more and sighed. Sitting down on the bed, his back to the Eastern wall, he softly placed his head in his hands and held it, for what seemed like days. Sighing again and he fell willfully backward, head onto the pillow, perfectly placed. Bothering not to get under the sheet and worn quilt, the man willed himself to sleep and then fell.


'How've ya been?" a mail-carrying and professional-wrestling-obsessing neighbor asked as the man graced through the door-way onto his front porch, the sun peering just under the overhang of the porch; blinding his quick gaze.

Turning first, glancing toward the mailbox - half-open, the hinges worn from years of opening and closing and Indiana winters. Locking the door, traversing and then glancing toward the mail-man neighbor, the man gave a nod and a smile.

Both, outwardly satisfied with the interaction, transitioned back to their self-conscious and departed each others awareness. The man, however, never left himself. He had sealed off the majority of his once-hearty interactive nature. After the crash, no one asked why he said nothing.

As quick as always, the man did not lumber down the six steps to the street, out of the apartment property, circled with wrought-iron fence juxtaposed to the brown-December suffered grass below.

He moved swiftly to his car, opened the door, placing - not tossing - his briefcase into the lonely-passenger seat. Starting the car, he left the radio off, placed his foot to the brake, shifted to 'drive' and moved slowly down the street.


Classic Features

Will not be nice. I'm sorry, Mom.

What I'm Reading: 12.9

Hello friends and colleagues.

Today is 9 December, or December 9 - depending on which side of the Atlantic Ocean you live.

It is the anniversary of France's passage (1905) of an act separating church and state, and consequentially leading a charge in secularism of one of the most worldly countries in the world.

It is the anniversary of the Republic of Texas capturing San Antonio in 1835.

And, on this day in 1531 in Tepayac, Mexico City a man named Juan Diego first saw the Virgin Mother appear to him.

It is the birthday of John Milton, Emmett Kelly and Red Foxx.

The NY Times on this day piece.

Jim Morrison is set to receive a pardon in Florida.

Interesting review/piece on Pope's new book; full of confrontation and explanation for stances of the church. Oh, yeah, and he didn't say it's okay to use condoms. Stop it.

Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook, has agreed to give the majority of his money to charity - along with 15 others.

In Hungary, auction attendees and art dealers are paying for Socialist memorabilia.

A Groupon-using businessman and web developer has to draw 1,000 cats because of deal.

A marijuana-christmas tree was seized in Germany.

A $10.3 million book on...birds.

A review on Black Swan, and bird feeding tips for your yard, in the city.

I really kind of like this song but, don't know why. It's cheesy and weird but, I can't stop playing it.


Las Vegas, take III

"The day breaks/Your mind aches/You find that all her words of kindness linger on, when she no longer needs you"

Buzzing off a small-orange gideon bible - the ones they hand out on the street to passersby - my iPhone falls onto the cabinet they both share. Oh no.

It's 3:37 a.m. I told him to meet me at 3:30.

Sliding out quickly, I grab the shirt I had obsessively placed on my packed bag. Grab my coat. Keys. Wallet. I pat my butt to make sure it's secure and then swiftly go for the door, open and let it slam behind me.

Whoa, it's cold. No matter. I'll be in Las Vegas in 6 hours.

I fly down the road in front of my parents hous; taking note of the freshly fallen snow coating the freezing street. I make it 6 minutes, when it should take 12.

I appologize, throw my bag in the green 05 Ford Explorer and litteraly hop in and close the door.

'"I haven't slept," he said.

Duane is a driver; works full time running errands in the time of life many people are afforded retirement.

"I laid down around 10 and couldn't sleep, again. So, I watched some TV and eventually dozed off about 1. Linda's in Florida and so she (pointing with the thumb on his right hand to the large furry dog in the back seat) was up all night, too."

He's very deliberate in his speech and not excitable in the least bit.

I've yet to say anything but, 'sorry'.

"Yeah, Linda's down visiting the grand babies."

"You flying directly to Vegas?"

"No," I said. "I have to fly to Charlotte." "US Airways...you know the deal."

We speed down I-70 and arrive with plenty of time at Dayton International. I say thanks and good luck - for sleeping mainly but, for everything really. I always said good luck and I don't even believe in what I'm saying. A lot of people do that. I do that; saying things to people we don't believe because we've heard it so many times.

I get checked in, then I check in on my iPhone FourSquare app. I obsess on these inconsequential things.

No problem with security, as I've become quite efficient at removing my worn chuck taylors, blue jacket; sliding my Apple laptop out and into a seperate bin. A TSA agent and I lock eyes and the moment ends.

I make my way to my gate: C14.

I walk straight past the gate and to the bookstore adjacent. I have the first flight out of Dayton at 5:25, so not much is stirring. Starbucks isn't even open.

I buy Harper's and turn for the gate. I stop in my stead, as the book store attendant asks me if I want my receipt. I say 'no'. He turns to another lady stocking the 'best-seller' rack behind the counter; "man, it's early," he says.

"What time does Starbucks open?"

"Man, that lady has the toughest job here," rubbing his eyes he looks me up and down. I should feel awkward but, it's 4:30 a.m.

"5," he tells me.

No problems boarding, and no problems in Charlotte before the long line for the Las Vegas flight.

I meet a nice lady from Ashville, N.C. on the announced-5 hour flight. We talk about Las Vegas, my unique job and how beautiful the mountains in North Carolina are. She is very nice. I never catch the names of single-serving friends. I've met some good people though. Proof to me that there are legitimate caretakers of this world.

I nearly finish my Harper's, move in on the US Airways magazine featuring a spread on Monterrey County, California; one of my favorite places and perhaps, the most beautiful place i've been.

We land hard. I'm listening to Eliott Smith as we near the terminal. I always unbuckle and turn my phone on before they give the go-ahead.

I move quickly, grabbing my bag from under the seat in front of me, moving to the aisle, saying 'good luck' again to the nice lady from N. Carolina and meaning it this time because, she is now in the capital of gambling. And, if ever were a place to believe in luck, it's here.

I move swiftly through the terminal, smiling as I see slot machines in the median between the gates.

"Credit card please," I tell the taxi attendent.

"Credit Card!" he yells to another gent down the way.

"Nineteen," he says.

I climb in the cab to conservative commentary on the radio, a driver resembling James Gannon and 24/7 magazines strewn on the back seat.

"Where you goin?"

"3225 South Hollywood Boulevard," I say quite deliberately and forcfully, so as to not have to say it again.

"Do you have a cross street?"

"Ummmm, I'll look."

This is how many of my interactions go. Quick, to the point and from an objective-viewer's perspective, impersonal.

"East Vegas Valley Drive," I say.

I watch the meter climb, as I become incredibly anxious; taking note of it in a text to a friend who is not surprised I'm in Las Vegas.

I'm not surprised either.

The driver drops me off a block and a half from the security gate to the auction. I pay with a credit card and climb out, say: "thanks and have a good day". But, not 'good luck'.

The security attendent is from New Jersey. I can just tell by the way he is standing and then he talks.

"New Brunswick," he tells me, is where he is hails from.

"Had to get out there, couldn't take the winters anymore."

I find the truck I'm driving, get the keys and head out.


I arrive at my intended destination but, slower than I expected. From the hill the car auction say, on the fringe of the Las Vegas sprawl one can see, on any day, the strip highlighted by the Stratosphere tower.

That's where i am now. My intent on the Strat is not for me.

I love when friends/family send me on missions in my travels. I've learned many people are secretly and some, not-secretly living vicariously through my travels which have become as much a dream to me, as to them.

"I have a strange question," I ask the usher near the Starbucks and penny-slot machines at the Stratosphere.

"I was here not long ago and you had vending machines right there," I point toward the entrance/exit I can in from the parking garage, quickly retracting my point and glance for fear of unintentionally pointing at someone.

The lady nods and says: "If you want used playing cards, you're going to have to buy them in the gift shop."

"That wasn't a strange question," she says, as I stare for a moment at her awkwardly spaced teeth, coated on the edges by years of cigarette smoke residue.

She coughs.

"Ok, thank you."

I buy 7 decks of used playing cards. Some from the Stratosphere, one from Caesar's Palace, one from the Mirage and a couple others.

I get back in the truck, throw the cards in the back seat and take off to the sound of vehicles one level above me in search of a parking spot. It always sounds as if they are going to fall through the concrete floor in parking garages. I head for the exit. Turn left onto Las Vegas Blvd from the wrong lane and accelerate, in what I believe to be West.


This is the third time in just over a year I've walked the strip of Las Vegas. Am I lucky? Or, desensitizing myself to the pleasures of travel?

I buy two pairs of shoes at Urban Outfitters. A waste of money, I tell myself while, trying to legitimize the purchase with my other self.

The Bellagio has to be the most beautiful of the casino's. I enter from the Eastern side, go through the gold-spinning doors and watch for moment as patrons, or, rather, tourists take pictures in the grand-entry way.

I visit the art gallery for $10; an exhibit on the human body with pieces from Picasso, Renoir and Lichtenstein, among others.

Moving slowly through the exhibit, I see little which moves me. I listen to all the audio commentary and realize for a second the wine I drank earlier is making me weepy.

I depart for the entry-way to the Bellagio. If you have never been, the Bellagio has a garden/glass-top hall which is decorated for whichever season 'we' are currently in.

It's the Christmas season and therefore, penguins, polar bears and giant christmas tree ornaments adorn the hall on a bed of strategically-placed white and red poinsettas. It's unbelievably gorgeous and I become quite emotional at the sight of it. I cry a bit, thinking about the past year and how difficult it has been, at times. I take pictures on my iPhone and watch as families and couples interact in what, I hope for all of them, is a true love for each other I suddenly long for.

I wish someone were here with me to see this.

Travel has afforded me many things. It has also given me reason, more and more, and more...to wish to experience some of the great things I've seen, with someone else. Ironically, I never used to want to share anything with anyone for the selfishness of seeing what I wanted to see.

I leave the Bellagio and having seen the adornment of three out of four seasons, I wish to see the last of the seasons with another. But, not yet.

I make my way down the strip. I get to see the water/light show at the Bellagio three times during the night. I shoot video of one of them.

Making my way to the Venetian, I buy a beer and make a phone call to a friend. We talk about baseball for a few minutes and I tell him I like Dimaggio and Gehrig the best.

"They're both Yanks," he says.

"They were true ball players," I say, realizing how much I love the game and the classic history of it.

The Venetian is grand and I mourn for those who haven't been to Venice. I watch the gondola's listen to one song on my iPhone with my earbuds in, as couples pass by taking pictures of the grande, yet fake scenery.

I wonder for a few minutes, what they think of me.

The inside of the Ventian has a beautful aroma. Of roses and something else, I've been wondering since the first time.

I make my way along the false-canal. A gondolier sings 'All Shook Up,' dancing like Elvis as he paddles a mother, father, son and daughter down the blue-water filled canal; nothing like Venice.

I make my way to the 'square' and watch a flutist and violinist play the theme to the Godfather. It's quite fantastic, if not cheesy. But, i enjoy it, drink a beer and write a bit on my experiences of the day.

I then get incredibly frustrated, scribble on the page of my moleskin and shove it inpersonally into my urban outfitters bag. I sit in utter frustration, guilt and fragility for what seems days as the flute drones on, people laugh and gelato is eaten.

I look at my feet; my dirty paint-splattered and 'holy' chuck taylors, faded from a years experiences.

I wish for things I shouldn't. I dwell on wrongs I've no power to change and I wonder...all at the same time.


I pull into the CASA BLANCA casino in Mesquite, Nevada.

I tilt the seat back, reach for the lever under the seat and place my feet hard to the floor and push back.

I drift to sleep.

I awake, look at my phone; it's midnight. I go back to sleep.

Awaking to the coldness of the inside of the 02 Tacoma, I turn on the truck for a few minutes and hear people talking outside in the parking lot. I turn the heat up and drift asleep. At some point I awake and turn off the truck again.

I awake to being cold, again. It's 2:30, so, I drive.


The road is hard but, my conscience is clear as I drive the speed limit up I-15 into Utah. It's dark but, it's not as cold as it is in Indiana.

I watch the sun rise ahead of me and take in the glorious scenery of Central Utah.

I pull off periodically to snap pictures with my newest, best-good friend; my iPhone.


Feeling Terrible

I feel terrible for being warm in a house so much larger than I, when so many others sit outside cold.


Thursday Playlist 12.2.2010

I will be sharing my playlist from my drive to work (an hour or so). My iPhone's iTunes are set to shuffle and I will put down every song in the order they play. Meaningless, perhaps but, I'll enjoy it, nonetheless. It didn't seem to shuffle well but, we'll try again next week.


Warpigs - Black Sabbath
Jesse and my Whetstone - Saves the Day
Some mother's son - Kinks
Aura - Blackbird Blackbird
Me against the world - Tupac
Harry Hood - Phish, Hampton Comes Alive
Lola - Kinks
Mercury Rising - From Autumn to Ashes
Apeman - Kinks
Promised Land - Grateful Dead, live at the Cow Palace
Out Tonight - RENT broadway soundtrack
Pine Apple Rag - Scott Joplin
AC/DC Bag - Phish, NYE live in Miami 2009
Midnight Town - Jerry Garcia
Wizard - Black Sabbath
Kung - Phish, live in Brooklyn
Coldplay - God Put A Smile On My Face
Big Black Furry Creatures From Mars - Phish, Hampton Comes Alive
Come To Me - Les Miserables, Original Cast Recording
Naked As We Came - Iron and Wine
Blackbird - Beatles
Love Vigilantes - Iron and Wine
Brokedown Palace - Grateful Dead


A Time To Be So Small

One of my favorite songs of the last few years is called: A time to be so small by Interpol.

Delusional as i am, at best, I can't shake the idea that the car crash I saw today didn't have something to do with everything else going on in my day and, in my life.

As my friend and I were leaving ADE auto auction this afternoon we witnessed, or rather, I witnessed a semi-tanker slide on the freshly fallen snow, move sideways and cause one car to flip and two others to slam in opposite medians. It was incredible, to say the least. And, of course, in a bad way.

Creeping past a man was outside of his wrecked car, uninjured and on the telephone. It made little sense to stop as I'm nearly sure he was calling the authorities. The most frightening part of the collision was seeing it happen so quickly and, not 1/4 mile ahead of us. As I ackowledge the event I feel a bit queasy and yet, blessed to have been where I was, at that time.

As little as I could, with a day ahead of me, I thought of the interaction with danger and what it means to me when I see horrific things happen with me standing by unharmed. There is a true time for us all and although there is no such thing as luck, I know know providence says it has not yet been my time.

Now, I have no idea what came of the crash I saw. Headlines across Indianapolis have been plentiful today, as several accidents have been attributed to the first batch of the feathery and sometimes, slippery white stuff. But, I do know that when events as this take place, I can't help but, wonder if I'd be ready if it were soon my time.

Coming back to my first and, now seemingly tangential statement about the Interpol song; isn't it interesting for those who have experienced, discerned and realised the divine truth of providential thinking, how small we are...all the time.

This afternoon was a time to be so small as, all times are. But, again in the divine spectrum of time and the mirrored sequence of events, I thought again of how small I am. This should not mean the same thing as insignificant, as I purposely left that off. The ability to be small doesn't require the connection to insignificance.

Time will surely erase todays event and it'll take another hypothetical 'crash' for me to acknowledge the grande events going on around me. Or perhaps it won't; that all depends on what's in the cards for me.

Again, it's no game of luck.



Life; the epic tease

I alternate between resignation and cynicism on the subject of hopefulness.

Telling someone tonight, I said: "life, is an epic tease," I resigned to my position wherein I've no hope for true fulfillment. However bright though, it most certainly is a struggle within a given realm of understanding.

Finding truth in (life) requires true submission to understanding of the self. And, oftentimes requires great amounts of sorrow, self-defeat acknowledgment and agony. Arising from the ashes of a previously broken existence yields a more true self and a greater, more assured vision for ones life. The most difficult thing and surely the most important, is to be able to defend the newly discovered self and live with the results of the new embrace.

Most often, people fall back down, re-acknowledge the parts of themselves which are weak and they are not comfortable with and then, resign to the false impressions and inequities which cause the loss of the true 'self'.

Recently I've been flip-flopping, as I said, and despite the fact the non-desirable requires me to write, I know it's not the life I wish to live. These are trying times. I do not wish to falter, however, and no matter the sorrow I am sure to endure I'm going to stick with it.

Nearing a point of understanding, I am not giong to relinquish what I've learned from the past year of myself. I know a lot of me now, and most assuredly will cling to hope and the 'idea' that the true fulfillment I seek is within the realm of possibility. I will not sacrifice or compromise what I believe to be my chance.

Traveling takes us places we've never been. We relish the chance to escape. To experience new sites, smells and experiences. We become romantic of our sudden understanding in a new environment. The time flies and, if we are free from anxiety (which I never am) we enjoy and are able to lament sadness while holding to the experience and appreciating the time spent.

But, when we arrive back to reality or, when we snap back to the land of our 'real life' we often falter; become zombies again, and die another death in an act of lifes theoretical and theatrical production. If only the self were understood and we knew of our true balance and love.

Then we wouldn't have to depart when we leave for a vacation or a getaway.

Our life would be the getaway; an experience of constant fulfillment where we lived the way we were meant to live, danced to what we should dance to and loved who and what we were meant to love.

Life; the epic tease...only if you allow it.

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